


Command Me to be Well

by subchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Sam, Come play, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Rimming, Season/Series 08, Somnophilia, Trials of Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's got this thing, where he can't help but push Sam until Sam breaks into pieces in his hand for Sam to be able to enjoy what Dean can offer him. It doesn't help that Sam's body is falling apart, under both of them, because some Trial said he had to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Command Me to be Well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whiskyandoldspice (Itsirtou)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsirtou/gifts).



> So, I promised a somnophilia fic last week, and I basically just started it yesterday. I am a fail human.
> 
> Also, I really dig post-second Trials of Hell!Sam, so go figure.

It’s another morning where Sam shifts from foot to foot in an attempt keep his eyes from straying, the lids too heavy. It’s always the same execution, with only small variations, almost too little to spot, with more coffee, cream, and sugar, some other concoction that his brother would scoff at.

Sam isn’t doing so well; he’s never doing so well these days. Sam thinks he’s invisible, a few laughs here and there, a well-placed twist of his features when Dean steps out of line, and Sam thinks they can call it a day. Sam wants to be able to give the image that he’s fine; he’s more than fine, he’s better than ever, but with every bloody cloth he shoves into his pocket when Dean enters the room like it’s not the most well-kept secret, it’s much further from the truth.

Sam is trying to be the hero, with every piece of information he devours to know more about the Trials he’s taken on, it’s more than he can handle, but less than what he wants.

When it becomes too much, he collapses into himself, some power nap that he thinks can solve his issues, from the withering skin on his bones, his disintegrating muscle mass, and energy running on less than fumes. It wouldn’t be Sam if he didn’t fight it all the way, pushing through the burn of sleep deprivation until it tunnels his vision and words smear down the page until it’s unrecognizable.

And Dean, he can’t take watching it anymore, he can’t watch Sam hold his own body hostage from things it needs, and he’s shoving the chair back. Dean shouldn’t be able to walk upon Sam without Sam noticing, without his reflexes catching hold of the movement and barely audible sounds of Dean’s feet upon the floor.  His shallow breath would snare the edges of Sam’s attention enough for him to turn around before Dean was halfway across the room.

“Alright, Sam,” and he’s a little snappish, should probably have more consideration, but this is a tired act that Dean’s never liked, “come on, champ, let’s get you to bed. No more caffeine, you’ll give yourself a heart attack at twenty-nine.”

This is the part where Sam would fight, shove back from the pull of comfort of Dean’s body in an attempt to look fine, he’s _okay_ , and Dean doesn’t need to baby him. There’s none of that, a half-hearted attempts of protest, a shuffling of appendages to keep up the illusion that Sam’s in control, whether it’s for Dean’s sake or his own.

At least that partially comforts Dean; he can buy into Sam’s illusion to lessen the stress of the withering body beside him.

Dean rolls with it, takes it all into stride like everything else he internalizes, buries and never speaks of again, and he’s pushing himself and Sam toward the hallway. The oldest debates on whether trudging to his room or Sam, and the sensory recall of memory foam against his back wins over going to Sam’s room. Sam gives a grunt so often, still trying to retain a look of defiance, which he isn’t hanging off Dean the whole way, putting up protest at practically being carried, but Dean can tell he’s grateful, as much as his brother is complaining.

He says things, meaningless and filled with a promise that isn’t really true. Small things from, “c’mon, Sammy, you really wanna be princess and have me carry you?” and, “at least you aren’t fighting me to help you,” and just small things, allowing Dean the blissfulness of not thinking about what’s behind Sam’s newfound tiredness these days.

He lets go of Sam, sitting him down on the bed in case Sam wants to take off anything before falling asleep, but Sam doesn’t sit upright for long, tips back in a rush of loose limbs and hair swishing around his head, and into the bed before Dean can reach out to steady him.

It’s not much effort to push his hands under Sam’s legs, haul time up, over the bed, onto the surface to allow Sam to be fully lying down. As he adjusts Sam, Dean can’t help but think how Sam would be indignant about this, handled like a small child, and as he stands, a low, “never gonna let you live this one down, kiddo.”

Maybe it’s to preserve this as a memory of good, maybe it’s to block out all that surrounds the situation. Whatever, Dean can live with the illusion.

 

\- -

 

Dean can tell with the pass of the late morning collapsing into the afternoon that Sam’s not waking up, he’s not getting up, and Dean can entertain the idea that Sam needs it, that Sam’s body rebelled and overpowered Sam’s unconscious mind to sleep more.

At least, that’s what Dean allows him to think, not about the blood at the bottom of the trashcan that would tell a different story to why Sam sleeps so much now.

With every step toward Sam’s room, Dean wonders if Sam sleeps different ways when he’s dead tired, if Sam’s need to control his own body are dulled to a point where he makes unconscious moves that Sam himself wouldn’t agree with. Dean grins, looking forward to a possible case of epic bedhead that he’ll tease Sam with later on, remarking how his girly shampoos doesn’t keep the frizz out like he wants.

He’ll need that teasing, he’ll need that image of false happiness, and he’ll take that happiness in any way he can get.

He’s placed against the walls of Sam’s doorway, biting the inside his mouth, staring at Sam’s prone form, with scattered blankets, curled around his legs, upper torso, in all kinds of twisted heaps. Sam makes these small chuffing noises when he moves, buries into the bed as much as the foam mattress will allow. His hair is a battlefield, swirled everywhere and blotched all over the pillow like an ink splatter, and Dean tilts his head, allowing a small smile at the picture of… domesticity, if he allows himself to think about it.

Sam hitches his leg up, knee coming up past his waist, and opens himself, a position Sam would never let himself take—it’s too open, too vulnerable, and Sam’s always, somehow, aware of his body’s position, about defenses that weaken when he sleeps, and this is a testament to how tired Sam is when his defenses are down.

Dean would like to think that it’s because Sam’s growing comfortable in their home ( _their home_ , what a an exciting, but foreign, concept of space they haven’t occupied in thirty-one years) that he’s decreasing in paranoid suspicion of the outside world trying to press into his head.

Dean’s moving his feet, trailing to the side of the bed, swiping a hand out at one of Sam’s exposed feet, a cheerful, “up and at ‘em, Sammy. This siesta is a little too long by your standards.”

Sam makes a noise, a soft protest without so much as opening his eyes, and it’s a little different, an unexpected reaction. Sam would be flying up, limbs swinging; taking a defensive stance against whatever touched his body.

There’s no swinging of limbs, there’s no swish of Sam’s hair, there’s no _Sam_ in that response. It worries Dean, but he’s a trooper, he pushes it all to the back of his mind, and lets those cracks fill with curiosity, expand his chest with some sort of want to continue this sudden experiment he wants to see to the end.

Dean sets down slow, places his hands on the mattress, feels the dip and compress of memory foam just beneath his palms, staring at Sam, studying his brother’s face. It’s calm, free of worry lines, smoothed over, and Dean sort of wants to touch it, roam his fingers over Sam’s face, tap at his skin, curve his fingers under Sam’s jaw to test how far this serene calm goes, how skin deep it really is.

He takes it, reaching a hand out to Sam’s hair first, smoothing his palm over the top of it before his dips his fingers between the strands. Dean takes them into his hand, rubbing his fingers and thumb together to test the strands, and Dean will never admit it, would rather pry his fingernails off, but he rather likes Sam’s hair. He can’t let himself admit that Sam’s feminine shampoo does good for Sam’s hair, makes it pretty to the touch, and he lets chunks of it fall away from his hand as Dean raises it out of Sam’s hair.

There’s a moment when Sam moves, his body twitches, but his head is moving closer to where Dean’s hand was in his hair. Things never change, even at their worst, with silence and sharpened words and fists slicked with blood between them, Sam still seeks him out, in sleep where his world is fragile and tentative. It’s need, unconscious and therefore, uninhibited, and Dean relishes it, that his brother still needs him, wants him.

Dean goes further, curving his thumb to the court of Sam’s cheek, wraps his fingers around Sam’s jawline, and stays like that, a small rub of his thumb against the skin of Sam’s cheek. He feels the hollow, pressing his thumb into Sam’s cheek gently, feeling the light imprint of Sam’s teeth beneath the skin. Dean slides his thumb against his brother’s cheekbone, admiring the arch, the roundness, just those small things he thought he would miss, erased from his mind with too much liquor and time, and Dean stops himself from thinking about it, hypothetical ‘what ifs’ stringing together if the Cage was the last stop for his brother.

This is a lot of what Dean denies himself, lingering on the small things, things that create this warmth in his belly, fear of it being used against him, destroying him when it’s taken away. He loves them, the feel of it, against Dean’s palm, to his eyes, mouth, with every body part that Dean use to reach them, and sometimes, the intensity of it, the sheer need he has pressed under his skin, it scares him, if he’s honest with himself, which isn’t often.

Dean continues, leaning down to press a small kiss to the skin, a small blessing upon which Dean delivers his version of prayer, one that’s real, made of physical essence, and it’s the only prayer he needs to have, to give. He lingers close, not completely pulling away, just breathing in the scent of Sam’s skin, the smell of faint Herbal Essence, of which Dean would reiterate that he doesn’t remember what brand of shampoo Sam uses, he just grabs a random bottle of shampoo and conditioner at the store each time—honest, he doesn’t _remember_

He curves his palm under Sam’s cheek, down his neck, and Dean lets it rest there, watching how his hand slots into the groove. Sam moves every so often, and Dean is careful enough to keep his touch light, barely imprinting upon the skin. Dean wants to, press against Sam’s skin, feel the full force of Sam’s body heat against his fingers, settling into his joints. Dean supposes he’s glad Sam is asleep, somehow suspicious that Sam could hear him waxing poetic thoughts about his skin, for fuck’s sake.

Sam would never let that go.

Dean’s moving his body, lifting his leg to place it on the bed, follows through with the other until he’s got both knees parted on either of Sam’s body. One hand holds Dean up; the other continues this exploration of Sam’s skin. Dean leans down, presses his mouth against Sam’s shoulder, a lingering kiss placed upon Sam’s skin again, all the while Dean moves his hand lower. He pulls back, watching his hand trail to Sam’s arm and reaches to pull the blanket away from Sam’s shoulder, trying to untwine it enough from around Sam’s body that he doesn’t wale up.

If Dean allows himself to dwell upon it, he’s always wanted to try this, he’s wanted to get Sam in this vulnerable position, his body so open, receptive, and allowing Dean to do whatever he wants with it. He knows Sam, though, about the issues with control, needing to have some form of reign on the situation, of which Dean has tried to get Sam to let go, he’s taken many great processes to push Sam into giving up everything.

It’s exerting, it’s effortful, a great challenge in trying to get Sam to relax enough to let Dean take care of him. There’s always that stubborn part of his brother that has shine through that has to take up a defensive against the pleasure, against the touches to his skin and lips, one of which Dean has to work harder to crack, leave open and gaping for his fingers to fit through and take hold of.

Dean’s willing to take it, though.

Dean pulls at Sam’s shirt, a gentle slide until the skin of Sam’s shoulder is exposed, of which Dean kisses again, and he’s trying to stave off the feeling of uncomfortableness at this amount of intimacy he’s expressing, the amount of feeling he has kindling in his stomach, low and hot, threatening to explode into his limbs. He’s barreling through it, pushes it down, and swallows until he can only recognize Sam’s body under him.

Until Sam’s the only piece of color in his world of black and white.

Dean trails down Sam’s body, nosing at the fabric covering Sam’s body, dragging his fingers lightly against the contours of his brother’s body. Dean rolls Sam lightly, gets Sam on his side and slides his fingers under Sam’s shirt and tries to not frown, about the flatness of Sam’s stomach, the less indention of Sam’s abdominal muscles. It almost ruins Dean’s mood, the feeling of the less than defined lines of Sam’s body, and it reminds him, jarred into his mind about what exactly is happening to Sam’s body, something of which neither Dean, nor Sam, can stop.

He bites his bottom lip, hand hesitating, lifting slightly from Sam’s stomach. This almost throws Dean into thinking about the situation, what surrounds them, and he stops himself from it getting any farther, and completely tries to immerse himself in Sam’s (depleting) body.

Dean presses his palm to Sam’s stomach again, stroking the skin with his hand, while curving it around Sam’s stomach to his side. There’s a small sound from Sam’s mouth, causing Dean to look up, gauging Sam’s wakefulness. He stops when he thinks Sam’s eyelids flutter, with Sam being so close to consciousness could ruin Dean’s plan, so he _waits_ , _waits_ , _waits_ , sure that Sam is falling under the murky waters again.

Dean wants to roll Sam on his back, lift that shirt and kiss at Sam’s stomach, bite at the skin and trace every inch with his tongue, and as tempting as that is, he won’t. He continues until he removes his hand, lightly placing it on Sam’s groin. There’s a slight hardness, one that comes with sleep, but not hard enough to Dean’s standards.

Dean maneuvers Sam gently again, until Sam is on his stomach again. Dean goes to push his fingers under Sam’s shirt again, pushing it up slowly, thanking that the memory foam doesn’t allow the bed to move, designed to absorb movement to minimalize waking the other in the bed. It was a good choice, practical for what he has planned.

Dean can feel the slight burn of arousal in his stomach, thinking about what he’s going to do, what he’s going to put Sam’s body though. Dean wants to hurry up, speed through this part and get his dick into Sam, push it so far up inside Sam until his brother can do nothing but arch, bury his face into the blankets and moan Dean’s name so prettily, but Dean will have time for that, he’ll have that chance later.

He kisses at Sam’s now exposed back, placing his lips into the dip, mouthing at Sam’s spine lightly, nosing at the small knobs of vertebrae that are there. There’s another low groan from Sam, one that tells Dean that his touches are working, just light caresses here and there, a press of his lips, and everything is still going according to plan.

Dean tucks his fingers along the sides of Sam’s pants, kissing at the skin he reveals as the pants slide down. The older brother is glad about this, how Sam doesn’t sleep in jeans in the bunker, as that would be a bit of a chink in his plan to undo them, increasing chances for Sam to wake up. However, with Sam being this dead to the world, he can manage.

He pulls the sweats down lower, curving lightly over the beginning swell of Sam’s ass. Dean wants to bite at it, suck blood just beneath the surface of Sam’s skin, imprint his teeth as a claim of ownership—there’s a lot of things Dean wants to do, but he can’t, not right yet.

Dean noses at the top of Sam’s ass, inhaling softly, letting Sam blow over his senses in a smoke that makes everything else dulled, less important, and it’s a welcoming distraction from all the unwarranted pieces that’s prodding just outside of his mind. He swipes his tongue against Sam’s skin, a quick jab of his tongue across the surface and has a briefest ripple of goosebumps across Sam’s skin. It’s sleepy warm, with Sam’s body heat, his skin soft and pliant under Dean’s touch.

Dean loves moments like this—well, not Sam being asleep during the whole thing, but that’s another level—with Sam’s body pliant, soft, warm, all that skin and muscles set out for Dean’s fingers, for his mouth, whenever Sam is in those rare of less protest for Dean do what he wants, allow his fingers to roam wherever he needs them, wants them. Those moments are far in between, and Dean loves every moment, when Sam lets Dean have him, puts himself in Dean’s hands with little resistance.

Dean pulls Sam’s sweats down, across his hips, and over Sam’s ass, leaving them bunched at the top of Sam’s thighs. Dean repositions himself, situates his weight mostly in his knees and leans down, placing his hands Sam’s uncovered ass, just staring, roaming his eyes over the tanned flesh. His palms press against his younger brother’s ass, almost in a kneading fashion, pressing his fingertips into the skin until they lightly indent, barely any trace of Dean’s nails pressed against the skin.

Dean moves his hands apart from the other, opening Sam, slowly, little by little, until he’s got Sam exposed. Dean watches, fascinated, opening up Sam’s most intimate place, and Dean leans forward, but doesn’t lick at Sam’s hole like he wants to, is almost salivating for. Instead, he goes for the top of Sam’s ass, placing a flat lick in between the beginning of the crevice of Sam’s ass, just below his back at the ending of his spine. His teeth come up to find the lowermost knob of Sam’s spine, twisting his head to get better angles at licking against the skin, adding a light press of his teeth against it.

Sam’s stirring against him, not quite awake, but coming up from his unconscious state because of Dean’s consistent ministrations. Dean knows his chance is coming, taking his mouth away from mouthing at Sam’s spine to pressing his lips against Sam’s ass, kissing over each check, adding a lick every so often between kisses. Dean’s been doing a light grind against Sam’s legs under him, rutting his hips against in unaware effort for friction, needing some type of contact on his dick, which could be an answer as to why Sam is starting to wake up.

Dean pulls back, watching the infrequent twitching of Sam’s opening, knowing his actions are getting to Sam’s body. Sam groans, and that’s when Dean takes his chance.

Dean leans back in and licks a broad, flat pathway up Sam’s hole, ending it at the top of Sam’s ass, pulling Sam’s cheeks a little farther apart. Here, Sam has a strong smell, Dean’s never been able to describe it, wouldn’t say it’s musky or heady or earthy (whatever that means, it’s poetic in Dean’s mind), as Dean would doubt those tastes, but it’s Sam, and Dean’s okay with not being able to describe what it is. It makes it harder to compare to others, for anything to be like this, smell or feel otherwise.

There’s really no taste to it, just skin and some hair, a bit of salt and somewhat sweat-like, plain and flat, but Dean’s still okay with that.

There’s also that Dean watched Sam shower the previous day almost before he dumped Sam off in bed, so there is a lack of anything for Dean to taste.

He’s also thankful for that.

Dean traces his tongue down the crevice of Sam’s backside, between the space of Sam’s cheeks, just a solid line down, running over Sam’s hole, which causes a groan to stifle from Sam’s throat, heavy with sleep and building arousal. It’s a reaction for Dean, heat pooling at the bottom of his stomach, a desire that yearns for Sam to make those pretty, stifled sounds of arousal, so open and unguarded.

Dean flicks his tongue up, down, and around Sam’s hole, keeping it light, concentrated as best as he can, and there’s a small hitch of Sam’s hips. Dean almost doesn’t really care at this point to be gentle, to keep his movements at the bare minimum to keep Sam asleep. The older brother is holding back somewhat, just enough to keep Sam from completely waking up, but enough to not let him stay asleep.

Dean licks again, stopping over Sam’s opening, swirling his tongue against the darkened flesh before he presses his tongue inside, just barely, lingering, and pulls back to do it again. Sam is stirring, hips twitching, rolling against the bed in this confused arousal, his body not awake enough to figure out what it should do, and instead, keeps doing those aborted jerks.

There’s an increase of sound from Sam’s throat, encouraging Dean to keep coaxing Sam from sleep. He pushes his hands apart further, exposing Sam even further, and blows cool air over Sam’s hole, which pulls a ragged moan from Sam’s sleep-thickened throat, unbridled in the way Dean loves them. He does it again, and again, watches the spit-slick skin retract and goes back to pushing his tongue around, alternating between broad, flat stripes to pointed, stabbing motions with his tongue, and enjoying every sound that pulls from Sam’s throat.

Dean’s hips continue a higher frequency of rubbing against the back of Sam’s legs, enjoying the slow crescendo of his arousal, cock thickened in his pants, and the beginnings of soaking through his pants. It makes him smirk a little, how Sam would protest against Dean rubbing his wet spot all over the back of Sam’s legs. The idea of it, rubbing it on Sam, getting it on his skin, smearing his essence onto his younger brother like some marking for Dean to smell, to be the one who only knows about it—it sends a crackle of heat down his spine, pushing into the spaces between his vertebrae to get to the blood vessel and settling into his bones.

Dean files that away later, the promise of rubbing his own cum into Sam.

Dean lets go a little more, pressing his face into Sam’s ass, knowing he’s getting stubble burn on Sam’s ass, and can already see the redness of irritation it’ll cause on his brother’s skin. It encourages him to press deeper, harder, all the while kneading at Sam’s ass, fingers pressing down harder, spreading, pulling apart, and all kinds of motions that will Sam arching and panting and trying to push back on Dean’s face.

“Dean,” and there it is, Sam’s waking up, and Dean thankful for Sam’s tiredness, for his body’s less reactive position, pretty sure that he wouldn’t want to end up on the floor from Sam throwing him off in a  moment of unsure, blind panic with hunter instincts telling him to shoot whatever’s on him.

That sometimes puts a dent in the idea of sleepy morning sex for Dean.

“Mornin’, Sammy,” and lets that Kansas-thickened twang roll from his tongue, smooth and crisp, despite having mouth on Sam’s ass seconds earlier.

“Wha—you,” and Sam’s hips hitch, grinding into the bed, trying to push himself up on shaky elbows, to look back at Dean. The older brother knows about this brief time window, before Sam will slam up his defenses, press behind his wall of iron for Dean to lose all progress he’s gained. Dean firmly reapplies his hands on Sam ass, dipping down to press his tongue harshly to Sam’s hole again, flicking his tongue around the muscle and Sam lets out this surprised gasp, enough to take his focus away from staying steady on his arms.

Sam drops from his arms, face buried in the bed, senses slow to react, which Dean uses to keep going. Dean traces around Sam’s rim, pressing his lips to it, sucking as he tries to push his tongue back in, and Sam positively _keens_ , his voice stuck on a variation of God and Dean and everything pressed in between, a plea Sam can’t get out, form, contort to words enough to understand himself. Dean’s stuck between pressing his fingers into Sam’s ass, intent on putting his marks there and pushing his tongue into Sam’s body, tearing Sam between two sensations that will muddle his thoughts, furthering Sam from developing into conscious mind to make decisions.

Dean lets spit gather around Sam’s rim, drip down the fine hairs there, all the while removing his hand from Sam’s ass, pulling back to swipe his finger upwards to press it into Sam’s hole. He doesn’t push his finger in, just enough to where he can get his spit inside. Dean sort of wants to get as much in there, enough to where he could slide a finger in there, but he’s not gonna do that, not today with spit, not in the mood to expend that amount of effort.

Dean’s aware of the small tube of lube in his pocket, unfortunately not flavored for him to continue to eat Sam out while using it, so he makes the best of it. His face presses back in, harder, harsher in grip, and begins his assault. He pushes his tongue back in, getting in deep as he can, wriggling his tongue in the hot resistance of Sam’s body.

“Shit, Dean—you, why—?” and that’s Sam unable to discern anything outside of Dean’s tongue, pressing sharply into his body, his chest heaving in air that’s not satisfying enough, his lungs needy for oxygen for the demand his blood makes. Sam grips at the sheets, pressing his face into the mattress, sweat slicking at Sam’s hairline, slowly trying to curl down the side of his face.

Dean does have another epiphany, which is ironic while his tongue is up Sam’s ass.

Sam’s writhing in _his_ bed, in _their_ home—not some motel on a nowhere-for-me back road in some faceless town in a state somewhere off the Midwest, with not even its name written on the water tower, and it drives the point that they’re fucking in a home Dean never thought they could have. It unhinges feelings in his chest, things he works to keep down, and Dean doesn’t want to get choked up with things unnecessary to the current situation.

There’s a throbbing between his legs, demanding his attention, heat and blood working to catch Dean’s attention, and while it’s nice to have Sam writhing on the end of his tongue, Dean’s ready to move onto other things.

With one last suck to Sam’s rim, Dean pulls back, moving to his knees before moving up Sam’s body, pressing his lips to Sam’s back, hands coming up skitter across Sam’s sides, listening to the pant of Sam’s voice. Dean pushes Sam’s shirt up more to continue kissing at Sam’s back, occasionally biting at the small arches of his brother’s spine through the skin.

Sam’s skin is still soft, pliant, less toned from his year of non-hunting and—he’s not gonna journey back into thoughts about what’s causing Sam to lose more of himself faster, opting to press his lips to the back of Sam’s neck after pushing aside Sam’s messy hair.   

This scene is awfully domestic, Dean musses, and it must be softening him to make these analogies, of which Sam would think were cute. He looks Sam’s face, sees the cotton candy color of Sam’s mouth, open, panting, and the bright flush to his cheeks, and Dean presses his face into the slope of Sam’s shoulder and neck, inhales, breathes in the scent, before he reaches to his other pocket.

He fills the space up, with words enough to keep Sam distracted, knowing Sam could take any time to push himself back to reality that he’s been disconnected from. “Can’t believe you let me do this,” and punctuates it with a hard suck to Sam’s skin, a shudder passing under his lips through Sam’s skin, “letting me do what I want to you, Sammy,” and runs a hand down Sam’s back, fingers easing toward Sam’s still spit-slick hole, pressing two thick fingers to it, not breaching, just this presence enough to keep Sam, and himself, grounded.

“Just lying there, pliant, letting me do whatever I want to you. Gonna let me fuck you, Sammy? Let me get my dick in you, fuck you so good, make you feel it for the rest of the day, maybe even tomorrow, or the day after that?” and Dean pulling his fingers away, reaching into his pocket, slightly fumbling with the small bottle. Dean would laugh, knowing he’d poke fun at Sam for carrying around a small bottle, but he knows Sam’s not thinking about him carrying a small, half-empty bottle of it.

Sam makes a sound, small and laced with arousal, and lets a barely restricted movement of his hips push against the bed when Dean’s back, pressing lubed fingers back, touching Sam’s hole, not pressing in, just a slow rub around the area, smearing lube all around.

“Dean…” Sam starts, and he stops there, as if Sam’s not sure what to say, what to do, other than lay under Dean, letting those fingers stroke back and forth, giving light presses to the skin, but never pressing inside. Maybe Sam should be more terrified, about the loss of control, the minimal say he has right now, and Dean knows that if Sam were fully awake, aware of himself, Sam would be pulling into a protest.

Dean isn’t in bone-shaking lust, there’s no rush of adrenaline scraping along the inside of his veins, no need to immediately push his dick inside Sam until Sam’s arching and feeling it pressing into his throat. The way Dean’s lips catch the skin of Sam’s neck, this softness to it; it lulls Sam into a more relaxed state. Dean’s been rubbing his stubble over Sam’s neck, knows it’s going to be red with irritation, and coupled with the bruises he’s sucked into Sam’s skin, Dean thinks it’ll be perfect match of colors.

Dean stops painting around Sam’s rim, taking a finger away before he sinks one inside. Sam’s body is still sleepy-relaxed, a little more open to his fingers, but Dean’s not going to take the chance of shoving in and possibly hurting Sam. With the surprise and shock of fingers suddenly inside him, it makes Sam shudder, a quick intake of air, mouth open, eyes lidded, and Dean thinks he could watch this all the time, see Sam’s face light up in pleasure, the lines smoothed over into this pretty show of features that Dean yearns to see.

He presses his finger in, slow, controlled, can feel Sam wiggling under him, and Dean decides to pull back.

“Come on, Sammy, up,” and he’s patting at Sam’s ass, and maybe Sam understands it, maybe he’s just reacting to what Dean is doing, but he’s moving after a moment, lifting his ass, presenting it for Dean.

Dean presses his fingers back, allows one to slowly sink into Sam’s body, slowly, controlled, just the languid movement of his fingers moving in and out. Sam’s a mass of stifled sounds, gasps into the bed, fingers grasping at Dean’s sheets, and Dean takes cues from Sam’s body, watching Sam push back after a moment.

Dean’s picking up speed, all the while smoothing over a hand on Sam’s thigh, stroking, curving around the inside of Sam’s thigh, past wiry, sparse hairs to grasp at Sam’s heavy, blood-filled hardness, palm facing upwards as he grips and begins a slow stroke. Sam’s back arches upwards, a choked-off sound ripped from Sam’s throat, a breathy, “Dean,” from his lips like Sam can’t figure out what to settle on.

Dean makes this guttural sound, the words, “yeah, Sam, gonna open you up real good,” and other words that border on the same thing, that begin to only sound like it as Dean is losing control of his tongue, the words becoming a jumbled mass until it’ only an indistinguishable array of sound.

Sam pants loudly, as Dean slides in a second finger beside him, shoulders shaking, fingers unsteady in gripping the sheets, and the older brother just stares at the long expanse of Sam’s back, dipped toward the bed, watching the muscles bunch, contract. Dean wants to lean in, get his mouth on that skin again, and get the sharp taste of Sam’s sweat on his tongue and teeth in his skin.

Dean does a light upstroke (maybe down stroke according to Sam’s position), twisting his wrist when he gets to the head, and Sam slightly thrusts into Dean’s hand, all the while trying to push back on Dean’s hand, get his brother’s fingers all the more deeper. Sam’s shaking, his limbs uncoordinated, unsure of what to do, and he’s got morning sleepiness wearing off but not enough for full-bodied awareness to seep into his bones.

Dean’s working in another finger, three to be exact, and keeps up his touch inside, stroking, outside, on Sam’s dick, pulling, and it’s a perfect combination to make Sam come, get him to make the kinds of noises that he can’t stop from tumbling out his mouth, and that makes Dean’s blood sing with arousal so sharp it presses against his vision to darken the corners of his vision.

Instead, Dean removes his fingers, the sound of them retreating sharp in the air, and Sam gasps, lungs breathing in to fast that he almost chokes on it. Dean grips at Sam’s hip, using it to roll Sam onto his back, wanting see everything on his younger brother’s face shine through, watch Sam’s ever-changing eye color become swallowed by his pupils. He wants to see everything, everything that Sam has to offer him without that mask in place.

Dean’s placing his body over Sam, his upper body bending, his arms leaning at the joints, just enough to get his mouth onto Sam’s. Morning breath assaults his senses, but he presses on, licking across the seams of Sam’s lips, pulling the bottom between his teeth before letting go to press his lips against the curve of Sam’s jaw.

“What do you want me to do, Sammy?” and Dean knows he shouldn’t like doing this, not when Sam’s out of his mind, when his brother is so pliant to answer to anything Dean says, wants, willing to do anything as long as Dean keeps up what he’s doing. It’s a heady burst of power that Dean can’t indulge in as much as he wants—that’s a good thing.

It makes it all the more special when Sam gives himself away fully to Dean.

Dean’s picked up the bottle of lube again, smearing it across his fingers before he coats a generous amount over himself—he may have stretched Sam, but he can never be too careful. He’s hissing, clenched through his teeth, his own touch bordering on too much, and having ease back before Dean ends the whole thing with lubing himself up enough to come then and there.

To push Sam further into it, he presses himself against Sam’s rim, smears the crown of his dick against Sam’s opening, “tell me what you want, Sammy,” and it’s low, guttural, knows it’s the kind of quality that Sam loves, and by the intake of breath Sam does, the quick expenditure of his chest, he’s pinned Sam right where he wants him.

Sam manages a twist of his face, features curling into slow defiance, which Dean would figure it to not be like Sam to be all on board with everything, even with Dean dangling the promise of an orgasm above him. Dean can see the registration in his face, watches the defenses slowly build, and Dean needs to keep Sam in this place. Again, Dean presses against Sam, a slight breach of Sam’s body, using one arm to hold up one of Sam’s splayed-open legs, fitting under the crook of Sam’s knee.

“Fuck, Dean,” and Sam’s breathless, tiny hitches of his waist, wanting to press against. “Fuck off with that,” is spat with sleepy refusal, and there’s Dean’s brother, stubborn and headstrong and refusal to submit so easily. Dean only grins, pressing himself against Sam’s entrance, barely breaching to only pull back, watching the muscles cording in his brother’s neck, and a sound rips from Sam’s mouth, almost a near whine.

Sam lets the leg not held by Dean fall open wider, allowing Dean more room to move, and Sam bites his bottom lip again when the slick skin of Dean’s dick nudges him again. It’s a game now, to see who breaks faster, begs harder, and Dean knows he’s reaching his end, can’t keep up this routine. He tries one more time, pressing in enough to slip past some resistance, feeling Sam’s rim give a little, and a pathetic sound lurches from Sam’s throat.

“Fuck—me,” and it’s not what Dean really wants, not drawn out long enough, but he’ll take it. Repositioning and Dean’s pressing in, and Sam expels an impatient breath, mouth falling open, and Dean doesn’t flutter his eyes, doesn’t let himself look down where he’s pushing into Sam, doesn’t look at how he’s opening Sam’s body.

He watches Sam’s face, eyes steady, as Sam loses himself in the feeling, and Dean can feel the build of resistance that Sam’s body has, and for a moment he thinks Sam won’t let him in, Sam’s gonna still fight him along the way, but Sam tenses, trying to relax, and an exhale later, Dean feels Sam lessening, enough that he pushes in, steady, firmly, until Sam’s seated against his pelvis.

It doesn’t matter how many times they do this, how much preparation goes into it, as much as Dean likes having his fingers in Sam, stroking, stretching, all kinds of movements that can bring Sam off without ever touching his dick, just a kiss on the lips, feeding from each other’s air, and Dean fingers pressing in all kinds of spots until he finds the right one, it’s never enough to completely prepare Sam for Dean to push his dick into him.

Maybe Dean likes the resistance, he’d never say it, but it signifies another step that Sam lets him have—allowing Dean into his body, giving up the control to let Dean have him, and Dean is always grateful for it, he loves it, cherishes (Dean needs to stop with poetic thoughts) it.

There’s no way around it, discomfort at being penetrated, the heat that fills Sam, and he knows Sam can deal with it, as much as Sam tries to neutralize his face, keep Dean from flying off into big brother mode.

Dean bends forward, Sam’s leg still hiked up on his arm, breathes—repeats this to calm himself, does this almost like an exercise before everything goes up in smoke and it ends before Dean needs it to. He’s reaching out another arms, fingers curling around Sam’s chin, pulling him forward, needing to taste Sam’s mouth, latching on with a slow, languid pace.

“You want this?” is out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop himself, and his voice plummets, sinks until its gravel-rough and a mere vibration through his chest. He’s pushing into Sam with slow, short movements, burrowing into Sam until he can make a space of his own, pushing and working past all of Sam’s muscles until Sam can no longer deny him restriction.

Dean moves his hand away, pulling back from Sam’s mouth, from slick heat he doesn’t want to leave, but allows his hands to curl around Sam’s thighs and he pulls Sam down, gets Sam off his elbows that Dean had forgotten when the younger man rose up on them, positions Sam’s pelvis the way he wants before stretching over Sam, contouring his body to fit over the body below him.

The next action has always surprised Dean by how much he likes it, when his hands slide along Sam, sweat grinding between their skin, until Dean’s hands join Sam’s, pressing the tops of Sam’s hands into the bed. He always looks, at the difference between their fingers, joined in an array of limbs and skin and muscle scarred from years of staying alive.

Sam’s fingers—they’re a little longer than his, slimmer, almost elegant and delicate in a way. His own, shorter, thicker, a little stubbly, but Dean likes it, the difference between them.

Dean does remember a time when his fingers were bigger, dwarfing Sam’s hands.

“Yeah, Sammy, good, huh?” as Dean starts, slow, deliberate, pulling out until he feels just barely inside, pushing back in slowly, as if he’s forcing Sam’s muscle to stay in one accommodation, keep them continuously open for him. Dean squeezes Sam’s hands, pressing them down harder, almost dropping his head to watch the place where they’re joined.

Dean likes doing that, watching his dick slide into Sam’s body, watch the clear slickness of lube paint his dick, watch him get it all over Sam’s hole, and hear the low sound of it as he withdraws from Sam’s body, just before he’d slam into the Sam’s body. He likes the way Sam pulls him in, watching Sam’s hole expand over the widest part of his dick to close around the base of his shaft, and it always gets Dean heated, wanting to watch himself go faster, watch himself fuck into Sam with higher thrusts, with quicker, sharper jabs of his dick to his brother’s prostate.

It gets ridiculous, how much Dean wants to watch himself fuck Sam’s hole, watch it twitch around him, watch as his dick opens it further, and Dean thinks he may have a kink for it. Just watch himself fuck into Sam, continuously, but this time, Dean doesn’t watch, he doesn’t venture a look down there, for his eyes are stuck on Sam’s face.

That half-lidded, barely-visible trace of hazel is the look of Sam when he’s checked out, when his mind isn’t working through the pleasure in analytical ways interpreting ways to keep himself in check while experiencing everything Dean has to offer his body. Dean's attention is focused, zeroed in until it reaches tunnel vision on Sam’s face, watching the slackened muscles and sweat curving down the side of his face.

And Dean hovers above him with the look a man finding his purpose, relishing in it, and squeezes Sam hand back so hard that if it were a lesser person, Dean would fear that he would crush their bones. Not Sam, Sammy, his brother, he can handle it, loves it in fact.

“Look at you, so good, Sammy,” and here begins the scene where Dean starts to spew whatever random words he has for this, voicing all the arousal he can into words to wash them over Sam, another tactic he does to help blow Sam over, to push him into the place where no thought reaches him, where nothing can pierce through to set the younger man on edge at any time.

Sam’s head turns to the side, eyes closed, mouth agape and Dean takes the moment to lean down, bite and lick and suck at the mottled skin that Dean’s left previous marks on. He wants them bright and visible, there for Dean to pass his fingers over during everyday activities, as if he’s trying to preserve the phantom feel of it under his teeth and fingers when he made them.

 So, what if Dean has a possessive instinct that Sam indulges him in?

Dean leans back up and Sam lets go over his hand, reaching up to bring Dean back down, what Dean perceives to be a possible sound of protesting before his mouth is back on Sam’s. It’s not really a kiss, just a movement of their mouths against the other, breathing in the other’s breath, feeding on it, needing it.

“Sammy,” becomes more of a groan, and Dean doesn’t want to but he unhinges his other hand from Sam’s palms, wraps his arms around Sam’s thighs, fingers digging into the skin harshly where his hands come to rest, gripping and using that leverage to push his dick inside as far as he can, quickly, amplifying the sound his skin hitting Sam’s.

Sam whispers Dean’s name like a village in need of their so-called God, his breath choppy and full of exertion, to which Dean admires, loves it, lets it wash over his body.

Dean is trying to move his legs, move his pelvis, position for a better angle, knowing he’ll have it sooner than not. He knows the positions he’s gotten Sam in, countless time, to find his prostate. Trial and error for many times until Dean figures it out. It’s when he leans forwards, taking Sam’s legs with him, halfway bending Sam in half does he find it—Sam’s body tenses up, a shallow gasp from his lungs.

Dean knows Sam will deny the sounds later, as much as Dean will prod him about it (“Didn’t know you could make the sounds to rival a high class prostitute.”) later, but now, it’s uninhibited that Dean knows he has Sam in the place he wants. Sam’s dick lies between them, curled up toward Sam’s stomach, leaving smeared, sticky patches along his abdominals, but Dean won’t touch him, won’t remove his concentration from Sam’s face.

“Dean—I, I’m—” and Dean loves that look on Sam’s face, the flushes cheeks, everything about how Sam’s skin reflects how close he is. Sweat creasing Sam’s hairline, on his neck, and it makes his moles stick out more, and Dean wants to leans down, trace trails to each of them, connect them with only his tongue but he won’t pull away to watch anything but Sam’s face when he comes.

“C’mon, do it—c’mon,” which causes Dean to go as quick as he can, knowing each brush against Sam’s prostate is pushing him along, the tensing of Sam’s legs. They don’t do this very often, without a hand on Sam, anything but the friction of Sam’s stomach being more than any touch that Sam gets to bring him off to orgasm. “Wanna see it, Sammy, wanna watch you fuckin’ come all over yourself.”

Sam’s body seizes up, his breath stutters in violently, and Dean’s name breathes out from Sam’s body so wantonly, sort of high-pitched, and repeats of, “god, oh, god, oh, _god_ ,” like it’ll solve every one of their problems they’ve faced, spoken like Sam’s never prayed before.

“Should see yourself, _fuck_ , should—see yourself,” and it’s the quality filth that Dean speaks every time he watches Sam come, shoves harshly into Sam body, unforgiving pushes against Sam’s sweet spot, causing Sam to twitch, pushing his orgasm to last, to wring out every sound Dean can get until Dean can no longer resist, and he comes inside Sam, fingers pressing fingernail crescent moons into Sam’s skin, almost breaking it.

Dean’s arms go lax, and Sam’s legs slide down his sweat-covered arms, setting down on the bed, and they both breathe a movement that causes Dean to shift back, and causes Dean to slip out, and this would be where Dean wouldn’t let that slide and push himself back inside Sam, wanting to stay inside until he no longer could, but he lets himself do it just to watch everything he gave Sam come sliding out of him, watching the thick liquid drip down Sam’s crevice.

He swipes a finger through it, knowing Sam has to be oversensitive, a little sore, but he can’t help it. He smears it across Sam’s hole in fascination, pressing his finger inside, and Sam’s hitch of breath is the only acknowledgement that Sam knows this is happening.

Dean wants to say something, break the air with other than heavy panting, but he’s too fascinated, watching his fingers push his own cum back inside, twisting his fingers lightly, catching a glimpse of his brother’s legs shaking, and the slow clench of Dean’s (soiled) sheets in his hands.

He watches his fingers push into Sam again, two of them, and thinks about finding Sam’s prostate again, wondering if he could get Sam to go again, but he doesn’t, retreating his fingers.

Dean sets back on his haunches, a light ache in his back because of the angle he put himself in, catching Sam’s eyes when he look up, and this soft look in Sam’s eyes tells Dean his brother hasn’t tried to reinforce his defenses, at least, not yet.

“You good?” he ventures, watching the younger man’s lips twitch, eyebrows sort of scrunching together. Dean’s sort of cringing about what kind of sappy romance-level of talk he might have done, no doubt preparing his own blackmail material to counteract, but Sam doesn’t say much.

“C’mere,” and Sam motions to him.

Dean knows what Sam is after, and as much as he tries to put on a show, he’s actually a little happy, but keeps on the scowl.

“You’re gonna turn me into a girl,” and it’s his usual anti-cuddling show going on, not that Sam has to know about it, letting Sam believe that he only indulges Sam. Sam’s got his arms around his neck, mouth pressed to Dean’s, exchanging his breath and sweat with Dean’s, and Dean admits, he’s fine with this, he likes it, as much as the gentle feelings that accompany allows him to feel before he needs to brush it off.

It’s nice, moments like this.

“Don’t think we’re gonna be in bed all day.”

Sam makes a dismissive noise.

As much as Dean tries to claim he’s anti-cuddling post-sex, he will admit, it is nice, especially with Sam big, warm body next to his.


End file.
